


Fortune’s Wheel, Reversed

by obstinateRixatrix



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: BUT the first chapter's exclusively Sloane & Hurley set-up, F/F, The boyos show up ch 4, a couple of gals bein pals, alright it's a semi-roleswap that's gonna follow the original end, oops second chapter's also Sloane & Hurley set up, rated t for several instances of the frick word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-09-23 20:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9674717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinateRixatrix/pseuds/obstinateRixatrix
Summary: Sloane is going to do whatever it takes to figure out what happened to Lieutenant Hurley, and how to get her back.





	1. she's dangerous, don't you know

**Author's Note:**

> so a couple of months ago I [made](http://obstinaterixatrix.tumblr.com/post/151139252889) [some](http://obstinaterixatrix.tumblr.com/post/151179678729) [posts](http://obstinaterixatrix.tumblr.com/post/152123540939) about a pttm roleswap and what better time to try and write it than femslash february. been havin some trouble with the second part but HOPEFULLY... I'LL FINISH IN TIME.......

_ She’s different,  _ Sloane thinks. Nobody honest can really thrive in Goldcliff, not with all the corruption, not with how everyone up top lines their pockets, but there’s something about Lieutenant Hurley, some chivalrous spirit that seems almost untouchable, impossible to taint. And she’s good at her job, too - before they cross paths, Lieutenant Hurley has a near-spotless record of arrests. Which is probably why she’s so focused on bringing in the elusive, mysterious, master thief, the one and only Raven. She’d read almost like a paladin-type, if she was a little more of a condescending jackass, but no; she’s the type to yell, “Stop, in the name of the law!” and actually mean it, but also the type that expects - maybe anticipates - the thrill of the chase.

Sloane can relate. Sure, it’s possible to make a decent living  _ not _ as a super cool high-profile thief, but where’s the fun in that? It’s a civic service, really, what she does to add a little more excitement to the everyday lives of Goldcliff citizens. Not to mention the redistribution of wealth she assists in, which  _ should _ be the government’s responsibility, look how helpful she’s being. Now the street vendor a block from her garage can afford to eat, while her mark gets to feel victimized for losing some pocket lint. In Sloane’s humble opinion, it’s a fair trade; when else can the rich afford to feel anything?

Other than when they’re betting on the battle wagon races, of course. Nothing breeches class barriers quite like illegal sports.

And apparently, nothing breeches  _ alignment  _ barriers quite like illegal wagon racing, because it’s after one harrowing _ (exhilarating) _ near-victory that Sloane spots her, skirting the edge of the crowd. There’s always one somewhere, because nothing beats the thrill of seeing battle wagons in person, especially compared to the ‘thrill’ of watching a race miles away from the heat and the dust and the smoke. She’s wearing a bandana and a hat but it’s pretty to easy to tell it’s her after months of pursuit.

_ Maybe not so untouchable after all, _ Sloane thinks.

  


* * *

  


“Enjoy the race?” Sloane calls, sitting at the edge of the roof she’s not-quite cornered on. She somersaults out of the way when Hurley leaps up, keeping a healthy non-detainment distance between them. “If you wanted an autograph, you could’ve just said,” she quips. “No need to spend all this time chasing after me.”

“What? No! Autographs are dumb, I didn’t even know you were, not until-” Hurley cuts herself off, but it’s too late. Ah, self-incrimination. The best ally. “Raven! You’re under arrest for petty larceny!”

“Petty!?” Sloane squawks, doing right by her namesake. “Like hell, that’s  _ grand _ larceny  _ at least-” _ She jumps, narrowly avoiding a punch to the face. Oops, more distance, then.  _ “Anyway,  _ I didn’t come here to suffer some factually incorrect slander. I came to cut a deal.”

“I thought you came here to burgle,” Hurley retorts, somehow with a straight face despite the inherent absurdity of using the word ‘burgle’.

“Well, that too, but I’ll have you know I’m an excellent multitasker.” Sloane winks. It can’t really be seen since she’s got a pretty big bird mask covering her face, but sometimes, necessity trumps efficacy. “Now, as charismatic as I am, it’s pretty obvious you don’t watch the racing for the racers; you’re watching for the race. So how about it?”

Hurley doesn’t let her guard down for a second, still in some fighting stance, still looking for some (nonexistent) opening. But that doesn’t stop her from asking, “How about what?”

“How about,” Sloane pauses, because there’s a right way to do this and that way is as dramatically as possible, “we race?”

Hurley’s stance doesn’t drop, but her jaw sure does. “Huh!?”

“If you win, my days as a thief are over. I’ll turn myself in and return everything I’ve taken. That is, everything that isn’t in circulation already, it’d be pretty ridiculous if I took all that money without spending  _ any _ of it. But if I win,  _ you _ have to be my partner in the next race.”

“Wait a second, hold on, I don’t even have a wagon, why would you want me to be your partner, where would we even  _ race, _ don’t you take another step!”

Sloane raises her hands in concession, instead of doing the whole walking over thing she was going to do. “One,” she starts, “I can get an extra wagon  _ pretty _ easily-”

“A wagon you can  _ sabotage-” _

“Listen, if I had to cheat to win against someone who’s never raced before, that’d be pretty pathetic, and quite frankly, I am  _ insulted _ that the possibility would even cross your mind. Besides, it’s not like I can  _ make  _ you follow up on your end of the deal. What am I gonna do, take you to court?” Sloane rolls her eyes. “Two, don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s pretty rough tackling the races all on your own.”

“You did lose pretty badly,” Hurley says.

_ “Dead last _ is losing badly, being in the upper quartile is a perfectly reasonable, above-average loss.” Now, Sloane can admit that she’s not the best at not-winning, but if she has to swallow the bitter pill of defeat, it’d be nice if her efforts were well-represented. “I can admit when I need help, and having a partner would pretty significantly raise my odds of victory. I  _ could _ scout around, but why go through the trouble when I already know someone who’s strong, smart, a go-getter, a risk-taker-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hurley interrupts. “Save the flattery, get to the point.”

“I’m just saying, as someone who’s been pretty good at not getting got by you, I feel like I’ve got a pretty good read on your strengths. In my humble opinion, you’re a perfect fit for battle wagons.”

Hurley scoffs at ‘humble,’ but there’s  _ absolutely  _ an undercurrent of interest. “Three?” She prompts.

“Three, I’ve been around. I know where the best places are to train while maintaining some degree of privacy. I mean, let’s give credit where credit’s due - I have to be  _ very good _ if I’m keeping up with everyone while riding solo. Skill takes practice, lieutenant, you of all people should know. And four,” Sloane concludes with a flourish, “no steps taken. What do you say?”

It’s obvious, what Hurley’s answer is, but it’s also obvious that it’s not going to be easy to get it. “I mean,” she says, “the odds aren’t really in my favor.”

“Absolutely, there’s no way you’d win.”

“And,” she continues, “this would all be pointless if I catch you tonight.”

“It sure would, but you won’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because,” Sloane says, “I don’t want to get caught.” She dodges Hurley’s lunge, sidesteps the follow-up, and jumps to the next building over. “Hit me up whenever you’re ready, I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.” Next week, probably, since some bigshot banker’s on vacation and that’s just a target Sloane absolutely can’t pass up.

“Just to be clear,” Sloane calls, once she’s several rooftops away, “it  _ was  _ grand larceny, wasn’t it?”

“If you come back, maybe I’ll tell you!”

“Nah.”

  


* * *

  


It’s not close. At all. How could it be, with an accomplished racing expert up against an amateur? Sure, it wasn’t a fair match, but Sloane doesn’t feel too torn up about it morality-wise, not since Hurley’s whooping with absolutely no restraint right up to the finish line.

Even though it wasn’t close (at all), Sloane has to admit, she was right - Hurley’s a perfect fit for battle wagons. No finesse, not the type racers hone over hours of training and experience, but she’s got great reflexes and she obviously loves going really fast. Two very important qualities to have, as a racer.

“I guess you’ve got yourself a partner,” she says, not at all able to keep the grin off her face. Not that she’s trying.

“I guess I do,” Sloane replies with a grin of her own. Look at that, they’re already in sync.


	2. she’ll break your heart and it won't even be her fault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this isn't a long fic, but it's a fic that keeps needing... more than one chapter. forgive the corny chapter titles, I'll change 'em if I think up anything better
> 
> anyway, special shoutout to [tazscripts](http://tazscripts.tumblr.com/tazscripts) for the taz scripts that I used to refresh myself on what the heck happened during pttm, and then distracting me because there were formatting inconsistencies for one of the scripts I couldn't help but fix and then I got sucked into the rabbit hole of transcript contribution.
> 
> also, I'm garbage at coming up for designs so the idea of the pendant in this chapter is heavily based off a shaky recollection of Tiffany Aching's horse necklace in Hat Full of Sky, which I haven't picked up in like five years. I should reread that sometime.
> 
> ALSO also, in brushing up on taz I forgot Hurley was lieutenant oops. 1st chapter edited to be more accurate, nobody saw that.
> 
> also ALSO also I had to look up car stunts for this. hurley does a handbrake turn or something. I don't know enough about cars to know how impressive it actually is, but in fantasy land, it's super cool. trust me on this.

“What the heck!” Hurley yells, the first time Sloane takes off her mask. “Why would you do that!”

Sloane blinks, indulging in a baffled expression that can actually be seen. “Because… it gets kind of stuffy? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got an image to maintain, but-”

“What about the whole ‘secret identity’ thing, what’s the point of a mask if you're not going to wear it! How are you so bad at this!”

“I am _not,”_ Sloane retorts, affronted. “I’m being practical. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together getting you in peak racing capacity, lieutenant, don’t sweat the small stuff. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to suplex me in a grocery store.” After all, there’s no way they live anywhere near the same neighborhood.

Plus, that’s just not her style.

“I’m a cop! You can’t just _trust_ me like this,” she argues, and those right there are some fighting words.

“Watch me.” Sloane tucks her mask under her arm, extending her free hand with a belligerent sort of courtesy. “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant Hurley, my name-”

“Don’t-!”

“-is Sloane,” she finishes, heedless of Hurley’s protests.

“The worst,” Hurley mumbles, though with her face buried in her palms it comes out sounding more like ‘nuh wrurft.’

She still shakes Sloane’s hand.

 

* * *

 

It’s pretty awkward at first. Before, all the small talk needed was ‘stop stealing’ and ‘make me,’ but now there’s some nascent conversational limbo right in the stretch between meeting up and driving out into the desert.

Sloane isn’t a fan of letting things drag on, so it doesn’t take long for her to launch herself right into the unfortunate territory of ‘first date talk topics’ just to get it out of the way. “I get why someone like you starts off as a cop,” she calls, over the harsh snarl of the engine, “but why keep at it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hurley asks, an undertone of curiosity that stops the question just short of accusation.

“You’re too much of a good person to stay a good cop, lieutenant.” Not nearly naive enough, not nearly nasty enough. Exhibit A: this whole thing.

She scoffs. “Is this the part where you try and convince me to 'change my ways'?”

“Like that’d work. Give me some credit, I’m not about to throw myself into a losing battle.”

Hurley falls silent, for a while. “Why isn’t this a losing battle?” She asks, finally. It’s soft, almost lost to the desert landscape. “What exactly are you trying to pull here?”

It is _physically painful_ having to ignore the perfect setup for something like ‘the biggest heist off all… _your heart,’_ but Sloane’s pretty sure if she went down that route, she’d be punched out of the wagon. She knows when to take something seriously. Or at least, her version of it. “I’m trying to get myself a decent racing partner,” she says, flippantly sincere. “Sure, maybe I could've gotten one that won’t throw me in jail, but where’s the fun in that?”

Another stretch of silence. “I keep at it because someone’s got to do the job. Maybe I’m not the best person, considering this, uh, grey area I’m in, but there are… people in the militia that would’ve just let you off the hook for this.”

“Yeah.” Or they’d knock her out while her back was turned and drag her in. Or they’d try and find her stash and skip town. “But not you.”

“Not me,” she repeats. “I’ll catch you one of these days. It’s my job.”

Sloane wonders who’ll be more disappointed, whenever that day comes. “Looking forward to it, lieutenant,” she says.

 

* * *

 

They settle into something that works. It’s tentative, a little too forced at times, but it works. It has to, if this partnership’s going to last.

Training with Hurley really shows she’s been paying attention, all those times she’s nearly caught Sloane. Sure, she’s a little rough around the edges, but after spending so much time together (albeit time spent trying to capture-slash-avoid each other) they’re able to coordinate pretty well; Sloane’s humble practice track is no match for the two of them. They work on swapping drivers, doing repairs, and countering attacks, all while moving really, really fast, and they get pretty dang good at it. Which is good, because illegal racing has a pretty fatal learning curve and minimal room for error. A safety bubble can only do so much.

An unexpected bonus that comes with bringing Hurley on board is the aptitude she apparently has for engineering. As it turns out, Sloane’s main wagon is ‘a pretty terrible deathtrap’ and it’s ‘downright miraculous’ that she ‘managed more than one lap without it falling apart, let alone more than one _race’._ Which _basically_ means that Sloane’s an incredible racer who’s super great at what she does.

Hurley insists on making some improvements so it’s less likely to blow up, or something. Most of the parts she needs are parts that have to be nabbed from rival racers with much more resources than ‘a couple run-down wagons and that’s it’. It keeps Sloane pretty busy in the weeks leading up to the race; between that and practice, she doesn't even have the time to be a thorn in the militia’s side. Before she knows it, it’s time for their debut into the world of battle wagons.

It’s day-of, the both of them sweating in the pre-race security crate for the longest half-hour Sloane has ever suffered. The faint, filtered sunlight is probably too weak for anyone without darkvision to see _too_ clearly, and with just the two of them, it doesn’t really feel like time’s passing at a normal rate. A second stretches far longer than it has any right to. Not uncomfortably, but it’s a second loaded with an almost all-consuming anticipation.

Her mask’s well made. A ram, which is a perfect fit, really - Hurley certainly does try to solve some of her problems by hitting them, occasionally with her head. Sloane never asked where she got it, or how long she’s had it; too immaculate to be an heirloom, but a little too scuffed-up to be a recently acquired accessory. It’s a shame it does its job so well, it’s just barely possible to catch a glimpse of her eyes-

“Hey.”

Sloane starts, some irreverent quip at the tip of her tongue, but there doesn't seem to be any incrimination to Hurley’s tone so she just waits. Gives a questioning hum for acknowledgement. Doesn’t shoot off her mouth in any way, shape, or form.

“Got something for you. For luck,” Hurley explains as she tugs Sloane down, reaching her arms around so they _should’ve_ been practically nose-to-nose, and there’s barely time to think _oh, wow_ before she’s pulling away. It takes another second for Sloane to notice the pendant that’s now dangling around her own neck, intricately twining silver that curls into a vague outline, more the idea of a raven than anything concrete. It’s beautiful, real classy shit, the kind of necklace that’d have an attendant specifically to tell some hapless buyer just how much they can’t afford it. Not exactly her style, but there’s something about the craftsmanship that leaves her a little breathless.

“Oh, sick! I was thinking of stealing this!” Sloane exclaims, despite never seeing it before in her life.

“And now you don’t have to,” Hurley replies easily. “Check, and mate.”

There’s something in her tone, an indulgence that makes Sloane feel more than a little transparent. But if Hurley’s not going to call her out on it, she’s content to leave it be. It’s a shame she doesn’t have anything on hand to return the gesture; not to mention, any potential gift would’ve been bogged down with the uncomfy implications of crime even if she did go through legitimate channels to obtain it.

So, she’ll just have to get first place for them.

 

* * *

 

She’s not the one who gets first place for them. She’s not even behind the wheel in the last quarter of the track, not after some chump in a raptor mask pulls her right out of the wagon. It takes a harrowing amount of luck, skill, and _damn_ good coordination to get back on board while sending the other team skidding off-track, and by then there’s way too much going on to switch back so Sloane concentrates on aiming at the tires of the Hammerhead wagon currently gunning for them, because a good deal of parts used for Hurley’s modifications could’ve maybe definitely been taken straight from their garage, which could’ve maybe definitely been accompanied by a not-insignificant amount of gloating. So, that takes up the majority of her attention up until they’re almost at the last pylon, especially with the sudden fireball that singes a good chunk of her mask and flies over the crowd of onlookers, and since there’s a crowd of onlookers, that means they’re hurtling full-speed right at the finish line.

“The cliff!” Sloane yells, as the wagon next to them slams on the breaks, losing the battle against winning versus self-preservation. “The cliff!” She yells again with more urgency, as they approach the finish line _and the cliff right behind it._ Just when Sloane thinks, _well, at least we got first place,_ Hurley does _something_ and they’re crossing the line at the same momentum they’ve been going at, which _should_ mean they’re about to be flying right off the edge of the cliff, except, they’re skidding sideways but still going full speed and before she knows it they’re turned around and not flying over the edge of the cliff.

Sloane takes a second to breathe, now that she’s starting to remember how. It’s a moment out of time, some strange, suspended calm, despite all the ruckus right behind them.

“What the fuck!” She finally shouts, practically falling out of the wagon and laughing hysterically. There’s a lot she wants to say, but ‘what the fuck’ encompasses the majority. “What the fuck!” She repeats, because it’s worth saying twice.

“We won is what the fuck!” Hurley yells. She swings herself over the front of wagon to barrel into Sloane, hoisting her up with absolutely no effort into a dizzying twirl.

Oh, wow.


	3. that's what life's about

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok. 4 chapters for actual for real. why does this keep happening.
> 
> anyway, my cat knocked my laptop off the table so even though all the keys work and it's mostly fine, I gotta type extra hard otherwise hal h words come ou like hi SO, THAT'S FUN.

It’s good, for a while; as good as it can get. On the clock they continue their cat-and-mouse game, and what’s unfortunate is that Hurley’s getting pretty close to actually legitimately catching her. They’ve been pretty evenly matched, and working together just narrows the gap between them. It makes heists even more of a rush, so that’s fun.

Off the clock, there’s a new layer of chaos they integrate into their relationship. A cop and a thief make for a pair in need of significant compromise, if each of them are sufficiently dedicated to their respective professions. The biggest adjustment is no more stealing for _anything_ related to wagons. At least, not for keeps. Going forward it’s all got to be cannibalized from pink slip wins, or returned after they got the right pink slip wins to cannibalize. On one hand, it’s not like there are any legal repercussions - lateral crook-theft doesn’t usually get police involvement, so no _real_ consequences. On the other hand, Hurley would be disappointed. Very disappointed.

In the end, Sloane agrees only because it’s guaranteed to piss everyone off even more. Hey Hammerheads, here’s that cylinder pipe whatever back. Don’t need it anymore. Didn’t bother wiping the grease off. Much love, Raven. A pretty incendiary letter, no doubt about that.

It helps that with Hurley around there’s a lot less to worry about, wagon-wise. She’s a whiz at them, and she never seems to run out of improvements to make; Hurley tames the guttural screech of the engine into a pleasantly threatening rumble, handles the bulk of maintenance, tricks the _heck_ out of their ride with all sorts of new stuff like a _harpoon_ _gun,_ it’s good shit. Even if she takes the one upper hand she has and exploits it mercilessly, constantly rubbing in how much better she is at the wagon side of wagon racing than Sloane is.

With her on board, time is actually dedicated to looking beyond the next race - figuring out they want, what they need, and who they have to beat to get it. Actual, legitimate strategizing. In Hurley’s words, they are going to be, like, so good at racing. Super good.

Goldcliff isn’t a place to go for peace, but Sloane feels something like it these days.

 

* * *

 

But, things change. It’s gradual, an imperceptible shift, _something_ happens, and Hurley gets… strange. Distant. Haunted, almost. Sure, there are times when something work-related clings to her like a thick smog of bad vibes, people she didn’t catch soon enough, people she’s not allowed to catch, all sorts of bureaucracy bullshit that bogs her down, but she bounces back from that. Doesn’t take much banter before she’s begrudgingly, then wholeheartedly having a good time. Or at least, exasperated-slash-amused enough to be distracted from feeling like garbage. Whatever this is, it’s… different. Off days turn to off weeks, and by the time it’s evident just how _different_ it is, there’s already something guarded in the way Hurley holds herself.

Things only start to clear up in the usual way: right after a near death experience. As it turns out, antagonizing a murderous gang known for its violent tendencies invites hostility, who would’ve figured. The boss (?) is gunning for her specifically in all subsequent races, which isn’t relevant right up until he’s in their wagon with his hands around her throat. Sloane would’ve been able to take him under basically any other circumstance, but the circumstance she’s currently in is trying not to crash while keeping in range of the wagon Hurley had to jump on so she can jump back and maybe save Sloane from dying.

Just as her vision’s starting to fade there’s a scream, and suddenly, Sloane can breathe again. There’s also vines everywhere, and Marvey - Maarvey? Maarvie? - is struggling against some strangulation of his own before Hurley kicks him right off the wagon. His light pink bubble fades in the distance, and Sloane still can’t wheeze out anything coherent so she waves an unsteady hand for a high-five.

Hurley leaves her hanging, too busy staring after Maarfie with some look of muted dread.

So. This is something they should probably talk about.

 

* * *

 

“There was this- this guy, trying to steal something,” Hurley explains, after they’re back in the garage. “I didn’t know exactly what it was, not at the time, but it’s powerful, and I couldn’t let him get to it, but to keep him from using it _I_ had to use it, and-”

She takes a shuddering breath, skimming a hand over her waist, which is adorned with a simple sash - what looks like brown rubber tree reeds, an interwoven ouroboros with no distinct beginning or end.

“You ever have something you know you need to use, but you know bad stuff’s gonna go down once you do? Like, you could do so much _more_ with it, but you're not sure that’s a good thing?”

Sloane’s first instinct is hell no, shit’s made to be used, the hand that wields a tool is all that matters, but this is… getting delicate to navigate, and there’s something that sticks out as important. Sloane doesn’t quite realize what it is until she’s already asking, “What happened to him?”

Hurley goes still, the frantic energy just… gone. Completely gone. “He’s dead.”

“You killed him,” Sloane says, wishing it could’ve been a question.

“You don’t want to know what he’s- what he was responsible for.”

“Did you want to kill him?”

“It felt- it felt _good,”_ she says, “it was so, so easy, it would’ve been easy today, too, I could’ve killed him. I _could’ve,_ why didn’t I? He’s- he’s _terrible,_ he tried to _kill_ you, and we’ve been gunning for his gang for _months,_ we’d _have them_ if they didn’t keep _breaking_ _the_ _law_ and _destroying_ _evidence,_ it would’ve been _the right thing to do.”_

“I mean, yeah, maybe,” Sloane says, a slow and deliberate admission, “but that… wouldn’t be you.”

“I don’t want this to be me, but I’m-” her voice breaks, “it _is_ me, it’s me and I can’t stop it.”

 

* * *

 

There are good days, there are bad days, but for the most part there are delicate days. Hurley seems more grounded when she has a project, something concrete to focus on, so that’s what they focus on.

It's kind of nice, when it's not so tense; apparently wagon repairs are some extension of Hurley's artistic side. She just likes making things, warping bits of scrap and wood into charming trinkets in her idle time. Sloane picks up a bit of it, just by proxy, but learning by casual observation is as far as it goes.

The few times Sloane tries to convince Hurley to take off the belt isn’t met with much success, so they just work on whatever. And it’s fine. She’s calmer. More herself, when they’re together. Sloane thinks, maybe if she nabs this arcane core thing and they finish this magnum opus of a wagon, maybe if Hurley has some reminder of who she is and what she loves, maybe she’ll be able to break out of whatever the belt’s got her wrapped in. It feels pretty solid, but after a particularly busy week at the militia, Hurley leaves. And she doesn’t come back.

 

* * *

 

Sloane never nabs the arcane core. There’s no point, not after the racetrack gets demolished by impossible vines bursting out of the scorched earth. Which would make for some cool obstacles, if the towers weren't completely wrecked too. There’s a bit of an uproar, but it’s hard to cause too much fuss when literally everything about this is illegal, even if everyone’s in on it.

It’s obvious who’s behind it, but Hurley’s gone rogue. She’s not with the militia. She’s not at the garage. She’s not at her house. But every night there are people tangled in vines, eager and willing to confess to all sorts of shit. From petty thieves to corrupt officials, Goldcliff’s finally getting cleaned up, but it’s not by Hurley. It’s Hurley, but it’s not.

It takes a while, but Sloane finally manages to catch up to her. By sheer coincidence, it’s while getting groceries, but she drops them after seeing the first vine break through the cobblestone, sprints against the panicked crowd to the source of their panic, and there’s Hurley, cornering the last of the Hammerheads. Sloane jumps between them. Vines that were tearing through the stone-paved path stop just short of her.

“What are you doing!” She yells, unmasked and in the open. Behind, the Hammerhead goon blubbers about something or other, but what’s important is Hurley, who’s in front of her, looking shocked. For a second it looks like there’s something she’s going to say, but her gaze hardens. She raises an arm. The background blubbering quiets, muffled by a cocoon of greenery.

“I don’t have time for this,” Hurley says, in a voice that should’ve been her own.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t have time for this,” Hurley says, the next time Sloane catches her.

And the next.

And the next.

And then, there is no next. Sloane doesn’t catch her on the streets again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chap the boyos come to town


	4. (love, at least: i)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god FUCKING damnit

Crime’s on a downswing. Hard to keep it up, when every attempt gets a one-way ticket to treetown. Then jail.

Even though Sloane never moves, Hurley doesn’t come after her. There has to be something meaningful about that, some way to use it, but for now, Sloane keeps her head down. She’s got enough saved up that she can afford to.

She can be patient, when she needs to be.

 

* * *

 

It’s a good thing she doesn’t have to for long because she can’t actually be that patient. While it’s pretty much impossible to catch Hurley on the streets now that she’s apparently making an active attempt to not be caught (or at least, caught by Sloane), she keeps escalating things. It goes from taking down a person, to taking down groups of people, to taking down whole organizations, and the bigger she goes, the longer she has to stay, which means it’s not too long before she goes big enough that Sloane has a chance to catch her.

She’s not out of reach. Not yet. People are _hurt,_ but not _dead,_ which means there has to be a part of Hurley that’s still Hurley. Sure, right now she’s currently tearing apart city hall (holy _shit),_ but it’s- it’s an extension of her, a corruption of her, so there’s still enough of her to reach.

The militia surrounds the building, which would've trapped Hurley if she didn't currently have the power to control nature so they’re _pretty_ _useless_ and not worth relying on at all, but Bane sends three newcomers in, people who definitely aren’t from around here. It’s strange enough that Sloane hangs back a little.

(She also hangs back because it’s impossible to get in until the dwarf basically sex-talks the plants into letting them in, what the fuck.)

At first they try freeing some of the hostages, but with the help of magic they figure out pretty quick that the hostages are less ‘innocent bystanders’ and more ‘the folks who embezzled from public funds and kind of deserve to be put in the slammer’. After two seconds of lukewarm debate they decide to just leave the vine cocoons for now, skip fighting the semi-sentient trees shuffling around, and explore. Or something. Who knows what they're here to do.

Sloane goes on ahead. It’s an absolute mess in the mayor’s office, chaotic growths bursting from the carpeted floor into an inexplicable garden of flowers. The desk has somehow returned to its roots, sprouting a full-sized mahogany tree with several branches punching clear through the ceiling of city hall. There’s muffled yells coming from… _inside_ the desk, making the desk seem less like a desk. More like a coffin.

Hurley stands before it, palms glowing a sickly green against the coffin-desk. In the dying afternoon sun, there’s a certain terrible beauty to such belligerent nature. It almost passes for a peaceful scene. One punctuated by a faint pounding and some incomprehensible shouts, which aren't very peaceful sounds.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Hurley says, a thousand-yard stare boring into the tree. “It’s not safe. Not for him. Not for you.”

“Nice to see you too, lieutenant.”

At that she jolts, whipping around to see that, yes indeed, it’s her old racing partner. She looks caught off-guard, maybe because it’s been a while. She also looks… worse off, but it’s hard to catalogue why exactly that is.

“You- why are _you_ here, you have to _leave,”_ she says, and even though she’s basically repeating herself, it’s not the same cold detachment, the trance-like lilt from earlier. “I don’t have time for this!”

“Well,” Sloane says, a painful stab of hope in her chest, “make time before you do something you regret.”

“I’ll _regret_ you getting yourself killed because you’re too stubborn to- to have _any_ sense of self-preservation-”

“And just who’s going to kill me?” she snaps, because it’s been a long couple months trying to untangle this whole _thing._ “Listen to me Hurley, it doesn’t have to be like this. This isn’t you.”

“You don’t understand. You _can’t_ understand. This- this power, it’s a part of me now, I don’t want to-”

Behind, someone clears their throat. It’s the human, his companions trailing behind at a reasonable distance. “So,” he starts, “hail and well met and stuff, are we- uh, are we interrupting something?”

“Are you kidding me.” Agitation comes off Hurley in waves, a frantic energy at odds with what should’ve been her stoic persona. “It’s not safe, how did you get in here! There were vines! Really sturdy vines!”

“‘Were’, past tense,” the dwarf mumbles, leaving the other two grimacing in retrospective disgust.

“The way I see it,” Sloane says, cobbling together some way to turn the situation around, “you can either settle down and _talk to me,_ or you can drag these poor, hapless, _innocent_ bystanders into some serious harm. You don’t want that, do you?”

There’s a bit of a kerfuffle among the newcomers, probably about the description which was _admittedly_ laid on a little thick, but hey, looks like it’s working! Genuine conflict skirts across Hurley’s face - except she settles into that unsettling blank calm.

“I don’t have time for this,” she says again, only this time with some distant focus. She turns and jumps out of the window. By the time everyone rushes over, she’s nowhere in sight.

 

* * *

 

Tents aren’t very soundproof. Sloane can’t get too close, but her hearing’s good enough that she can still pick up on the fact that the strange trio and the captain are definitely talking about Hurley. There’s something else that makes it… hard to make out what’s being said, a hiccup of discernible language, which is… weird. Everything about this has been weird. But they’re her best bet at answers, probably, so as soon as they exit the tent, she waits for the most dramatically appropriate time for an entrance - right as the dwarf says, “So I guess we have to find this ‘Raven’, then.”

“You don’t have to look far,” she calls from a convenient alleyway, just out of sight from the main road. There’s a scattered applause as they make their way over. Appreciated, but a little conspicuous.

“Huh,” the elf says. “Usually things don’t go this easy for us. Hail, well met and whatever, I notice you’re wearing a very nice raven mask - could you be… a fan of hers?”

“Nope.” Funny, but she’s not in the mood for humor. “You’re looking at The Raven, master thief, at your service.”

“Y’see, that’s kind of a problem because _we_ were told to find The Raven, ‘petty thief’, so maybe we’ve got the wrong-”

“Mastery is all about execution,” she shoots back. “Maybe I’m not nabbing priceless artifacts and breaking into museums, but I’m the best at what I do.”

“Right, okay,” the human says. “So, introductions, I’m Magnus, this is Taako, that’s Merle, we have some questions to ask you about someone that might be a mutual acquaintance of ours-”

“You’re here about Hurley. It’s something to do with the belt. I want to know everything.”

“Well,” he drawls, casting an uncertain glance to the sky, “logistically speaking, that’s not actually possible? I mean, if you know about- you know about the s̷̟̉̊̿̅a̸̮̥̫͓̬̍͜ͅs̶̜͕̞̼͙̻͔̩̅̄͒̄̄͘͜ḩ̵̛̪̖̦͇̍̔̃͆̍́ͅ, right?”

Hm. “That was a really weird thing that happened just then, but you know what, I don’t care. Tell the important things. Do you know what’s going on?”

“Kind of,” the human says.

“Eh,” the dwarf says.

“Not really,” the elf says.

Fine. Alright. “Are you trying to save her,” Sloane demands, because that’s the most important thing of all.

The three exchange a glance. “We’d like to,” the human says, an earnest timbre to it almost like…

Well. This is something Sloane can work with.

 

* * *

 

She takes them to the garage. The back roads, so she doesn’t have to take off her mask, but they skirt the main streets enough for the human to grab a souvenir on the way, which, nice. She never liked that vendor. Less nice when he starts poking around her own stuff, but she slaps his hand away before he can even touch any of the masks. Lets him know that if he wants to keep it, he won’t try that again. ‘It’ being his hand, ‘that’ being the mask-touching.

“So what’s the story here?” The elf asks, once they’re settled in. “I get why a master thief, such as yourself, would want to stop supercop’s rampage, but something tells me there’s something more to it. How’d you get cozy with an officer?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Sloane says, and she honestly can’t resist the absolute perfect set-up laid out right the heck there. “I seduced her.”

Silence descends, and boy is it awkward. Sloane lives for this. “You… seduced her?” The dwarf hedges, asking more for confirmation over clarification.

“Yep. I seduced her.” Another pause, to let it sink in. “I seduced her with racing.”

The elf wheezes with hysteria, offering a hand for a high-five. Nice.

“We’re partners in the battle wagon races,” Sloane explains, once he calms down enough to actually breathe. “Or, we were, back when battle wagons were still a thing, you probably saw what’s left of the track coming in. We ran clean, neither of us are big on the whole murder thing, and we were were good enough to win while doing it. Not doing it, that is. Do you know how hard it is to stay alive while other clowns are trying to blow you up?”

Taako shakes his head. “No finesse,” he condemns, continuing to be a pretty cool dude. But she’s getting off track.

“Hurley started acting kind of off after getting this belt thing. I thought she was just changing her look, at first; it was in the middle of a chaotic time with bad vibes all around. Accessorizing wasn't something worth paying a lot of attention to, but stuff happened and now she’s… she can’t fight whatever the belt’s doing to her, so she’s trying to channel it in a way that hurts people the least. I think part of this ‘supercop’ thing is a way for her to buy time.”

"She seemed... pretty set on not hurting us at the time," Magnus notes. “You think it's 'cause she’s resisting the s̷̟̉̊̿̅a̸̮̥̫͓̬̍͜ͅs̶̜͕̞̼͙̻͔̩̅̄͒̄̄͘͜ḩ̵̛̪̖̦͇̍̔̃͆̍́ͅ?”

“The what?”

“The thing you're talking about,” he tries again, this time with no interference. All this mysterious bullshit is really starting to grate on Sloane’s nerves, but she’s not about to be sucked into whatever conspiracy the trio’s a part of.

She doesn’t have time for that.

“Look,” Sloane says, “she’s been fighting it from day one, I know Hurley and she’s…I think I can get through to her.”

Taako hums, in the way people do when they’re too polite to disagree. Unlike those people, he doesn't seem too polite for anything. “So forgive me if I’m a little fuzzy on the details, but last time didn't work out so well,” he says, admittedly a fair assessment. But also one she can refute.

“She goes out of her way to avoid me, but it’s not _her_ that wants to avoid me.” Knowing Hurley it’s probably some roundabout way of trying to protect her, but that’s some speculation Sloane's going to keep to herself. “Whatever’s going on, it’s something we can work with. Now, I know a surefire way to draw her out, something she can’t ignore or run from, but I’m gonna need you guys to lend a hand.”

“Go on,” Taako drawls, steepling his hands in apparent anticipation.

“We’re going to stage the biggest, flashiest heist Goldcliff’s ever seen.”

“Sold. Hell yeah, let’s do this shit.”

Well, that’s one out of three on board. Sloane turns to the other two. “Doing a crime is obviously the best way to get her. The problem’s been, if I try to go it alone I know she can just stick me in a tree. I need… I need help,” she admits.

“Alright,” Magnus says, entirely too cavalier about that super important and hard-to-make admission. “Great. Cool, cool, cool. So like, do we get masks? Is that a thing we can arrange? Obviously the ram masks are out, and let me just say, my bad, didn't know they were super important, but what about those?” He asks, gesturing towards a crate of spare raven masks. “I mean, you've got _a lot_ of them. Just seems kind of a waste to not use them, right?”

“I get why you’d dig my style, but please, find your own thing.” Judging from the way he lights up, Magnus is absolutely going to take her up on that offer. “Since this is entirely for show I'm all set, mask and everything. I’ll leave you guys to take care of the militia, however you guys are involved with them. Take the rest of the day to prepare; we'll strike tonight.”

“You think we can take her?” Merle asks, doubt coloring the question.

“Absolutely not, are you kidding me? She’s basically a god at this point. No, I just need you to buy me enough time to snap her out of this while she’ll be trying to catch me. It’ll be…” Sloane laughs, a sound that rings hollow. “It’ll be like old times.”

 


	5. (love, at least: ii)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was super stuck about where to take this, there were like ten different potential developments I scrapped, but playing breath of the wild miraculously gave me some inspiration. the last part I had [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-LaZcee4804) on repeat in my head. also I made myself cry because of how much I had to think of the original pttm ending. no lie, every time I think of how Sloane says "this FUCKING belt" I get teary. anyway, enjoy

The plan’s pretty simple. Go in, make a ruckus, talk it out with Hurley, and stop this whole mess once and for all.

It’s a good plan. Obviously, since it’s her plan, and she always has good plans.

But, good plans do have their flaws.

“Why,” Sloane grits out, “is the militia _shooting at me!?”_

“Well,” Taako says, back against the alcove opposite to the one she’s got herself holed up in, “I’d imagine it’d have something to with the fact that we’re pretending to rob the Goldcliff Trust, and it’s kind of their job to stop that sort of thing, especially if they don’t _know_ it’s pretend-”

“You were with the captain!” Sloane yells. “I thought you would’ve, I don’t know, _coordinated_ something with him!”

“Actually, in hindsight, that would’ve been a pretty good idea, so that’s- yeah, that’s on us, but that’s why there’s that thing about when you assume-”

“Ass out of ‘u’ and ‘me’!” Magnus calls out, right before getting slammed by some sort of impact spell; he’s fine, probably.

“So yeah,” Taako continues, “that’s our goof, but next time, don’t trust us to know shit about anything.”

While it’s nice to know there’s a ‘next time’ on the table, in Sloane’s humble opinion, they really should focus on making it out of ‘this time’ first. “What did you do all day!”

“We made these rad masks,” Magnus wheezes from somewhere on the ground. “Carving wood takes time, y’know? I mean, Taako just magicked his mongoose whatever-”

 _“That’s_ what it’s supposed to be?” All this time Sloane just accepted it as some strange mouse-cat hybrid because, to be honest, she didn’t really care. Thinking more on it, she has no idea what a mongoose looks like. “Why the-”

“Nope,” Taako interrupts, “nuh-uh, already went over this with the boner squad. The mongoose is the Taako animal, you’re just gonna have to take my word for it.”

“Fine! Whatever!” In the distance, some officer is yelling about terms of surrender through a megaphone, so it’s getting a little hard to concentrate. “We’re absolutely no match for Hurley as is, I’m pretty sure adding cops into the mix isn’t going to go well for us!”

The dwarf lets out a put-upon sigh, rising to his feet. “Hang on, I got this.”

He trudges to the doorway, and with an almost irreverent gesture, casts… something. It’s impossible to tell what he’s up to, until he starts talking again - this time in a booming voice that’s much louder than it has any right to be. “Attention Captain Captain Bain,” he says. “We have your- your wife. No? Your husband? Significant other? We have some folks _very important_ to you, they’re all- they’re all in here. As hostages.” Another gesture, and the almost-empty bank is filled with a clamor of voices. Dang, that’s pretty slick. “We have hostages, so you’d better call off your men- women- _officers,_ or else!”

It works. The cops back off. Sloane’s absolutely ready to credit Merle’s bluff, or at least the captain going along with it, but that theory’s debunked when there’s some commotion outside- shrieks and yelps and sounds of struggle- and then an avalanche of vines shoot through the doors, shattering the lights and spreading out through the cavernous room. And in the middle of it all, Hurley.

She wasn’t there before.

By the time everyone turns to face her, she’s thrown Taako to the other side of the room, Merle following soon after.

“You’re too late,” is what comes out of Hurley’s mouth, but in some growling rasp that couldn’t possibly come from her. She's so much worse off, her skin a molted grey that saps the color from her once-dark skin. It’s obviously not her. Not anymore.

Magnus punches her in the face.

“Magnus!” Sloane yells, and she doesn’t even have enough time to decide whether she’s pissed, or worried, or who she’s pissed at, or who she’s worried about.

Hurley- or, whatever’s controlling her- just laughs, sickly green blood staining her teeth. Then Magnus goes flying. He lands behind Sloane, and before he can do something like exactly what he just did, Sloane holds out an arm; the universal sign for ‘stay down asshole, let’s see what we can salvage from this.’ Hopefully the other two get the message too. As Not-Hurley approaches, Sloane keeps herself between it and Magnus. It stops a few feet away, eyes glowing bright in the unlit room, mouth twisted into a grimace of a grin.

“You cannot free your friend,” it says. “There is no power greater than the power I possess now. I am absolute.”

“Bullshit,” Sloane seethes. “Why would some omnipotent tree-god go after a petty thief? She’s in there, I know she is. I’ll take her back.”

“Arrogant,” it laughs, like some smug two-bit villain from the world’s most melodramatic play. “You’ve been a _thorn_ in my side for far too long. This is where you’ll die, ” Not-Hurley proclaims, before dissipating into a trail of black smoke. As it does, everything around them becomes more… organic. The entire building seems to be molding into a tree, roots climbing over every surface, which means everything- walls, floor, ceiling, _furniture-_ writhes into some malicious parody of life and latches out towards anyone in reach. It takes a while to fight out of that one, but with some well-timed fireballs and some divine intervention, the four of them manage to hole up somewhere safe enough.

Sloane takes a second to catch her breath.

“Dude,” she says.

“I was trying to punch her out of it!” Magnus insists, immediately on the defensive. “She obviously was like, worse off, I thought maybe-”

“It’s fine,” she says. “Worth a shot. Don’t do it again.”

“Because she’ll kill me? Or because you’d-”

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

Taako shakes out his umbrella, whacking away one particularly persistent vine. “So, we’re obviously going to have to regroup and figure out what the next step is.”

“She’s at the top,” Magnus says. “She has to be, that’s _always_ how it goes. Evil speech, send in grunts, wait at the top.”

“This _grunt_ is an entire building,” Taako points out. “Not sure the principle applies here, my dude.”

“It’s all we got,” Sloane says. Time for a new plan. Or at least, an amendment to the old one. “So, I don’t think talking’s going to be enough anymore. It still looks like she can’t bring herself to hurt me directly, though - we’ve still got a shot at this. I know this isn’t what you signed up for, but I’ve got one more trick up my sleeve. Which means we have to fight our way up.”

“This was supposed to be a heist,” Taako laments. “Something short and simple! Not some side-scroller beat-’em-up Street Fighter bullshit, except against walking trees.”

“Yeah, not gonna lie, this is…” Sloane laughs, because it’s better than the alternative. “This is really going to suck. Sorry guys. If we can just get up to the top, I can get us out of this.”

“You’re sure,” Merle says, too doubtful to come across as a legitimate question.

“Guaranteed,” Sloane says, because it’s better than saying ‘hell no’.

“Well.” Magnus claps a hand on Sloane’s shoulder, grinning down at her. “We can manage it. I mean, hey, we’ve got Pan’s number one guy on our side, yeah? That’s got to count for _something_ in a plant dungeon.”

Merle scoffs, muttering something unflattering under his breath.

 

* * *

 

Pan seems to do his part, somewhat, but it’s grueling work making their way up twenty floors of plant dungeon hell. Some floors they manage to stealth their way through, some floors they can just charge forward and get whatever’s chasing them stuck in the stairwell, some floors they just have to buckle down and throw down. It’s interesting, watching how they all fight. Sloane’s mostly on distraction duty- she makes sure to keep the others from taking too many hits while they do their thing. It’s also helpful for picking up on how they fight; Magnus leans towards rushing in and ripping off any arm-like appendages, Taako shoots a decent amount of spells from a decent distance away, and Merle supports them somewhere in the middle. Obviously there’s a fair amount of shake-ups in the formation, but it’s a rhythm Sloane can adapt to.

Finally, they make it to the top. They’re not doing so hot, but it’s fine; they’re managing.

Not-Hurley stands in the center of the room.

“I see I have to take care of you personally,” it says.

“Now might be a great time for that sleeve-trick you got,” Taako mutters. Sloane huffs out a laugh, building up all the confidence she doesn’t quite have.

“Y’know,” she starts, purposefully light, strolling forward at a leisurely pace, “I’m not actually convinced you're all that. In fact, I think I’ve got something you can’t do anything against.”

“Impossible,” it scoffs, raising Hurley’s arm. It start to glow, building up some sort of energy, which is Sloane’s cue to pick up the pace.

“Check it,” she says, whipping out a pendant. A perfectly ordinary pendant with no magical properties whatsoever, simply a leather cord and a loose wooden spiral; calling it a ram’s horn would be incredibly generous, but there was obviously an attempt to etch in meticulous ridges along its length. The tense atmosphere gives way to confusion, but then, Hurley stills, her face unreadable. Better than manic condescension, at least.

“Meant to give it to you a while ago,” Sloane continues as she makes her way over, holding the pendant out like some talisman. “It looks pretty terrible, not nearly as nice as the one you got for me, but let me tell you - the first few attempts came out way worse.” She’s close, close enough now to see some staccato stutter of light in Hurley’s eyes. Slowly, carefully, Sloane lifts the pendant, letting the cord drape around Hurley’s neck.

“Hey guys,” she calls out, not taking her eyes off Hurley. “It’s been real. Thanks.” Now those are some grade-A potential last words right there.

She grabs the belt.

The second she does it feels like being hit by a bolt of lightning. “Let go!” Someone screams, and it sounds like Hurley. She sounds panicked, but she sounds like _herself_.

Sloane holds on. The sensation of being zapped to hell amplifies, it feels like her arm is going to explode. She holds on. The building crumbles around them as the weather starts going on the fritz, split-second thunderstorms turning into blizzards turning into hurricanes. She holds on. Silverpoint thorns burst from the belt desperately, stabbing through the palm of her hand, lashing against her with growing intensity. She holds on. There’s a brilliant glimmer of clarity in Hurley’s eyes, and it’s just a shame that it’s completely lucid horror. A blinding flash, a weightless jolt, and-

 

* * *

 

-she’s still alive. Which is a good thing, except for how painful it is. Every instance of contact with the silverpoint burns. Basically, everything burns, but the cool water of the pool they’ve landed in provides some relief. Hurley holds her, a helpless despair on her face. That's no good.

“Got me,” Sloane manages to choke out. There are sirens in some nebulous distance, anywhere between a few streets over to worlds away.

Hurley lets out something caught between a laugh and a sob. “And all it took was turning into a shitty tree god,” she jokes.

“That’s what it takes to take in a master thief.”

Hurley lets out another laugh-sob, pulling Sloane closer. “You… you would've been safe if you just left me alone. Why didn’t you leave me alone,” she says.

“You know why. You have to.” It takes more effort than it should, but Sloane manages to reach up, cupping Hurley’s face with the hand that isn't covered in blood.

“There’s got to be something we can do,” comes a voice from off to the side. Taako’s voice. “We have a cleric, for crying out loud!”

 _Two out of three,_ Sloane thinks, as Hurley shakes her head.

“It’s silverpoint,” she explains. “Its venom is cursed, there’s… there’s no surviving it.”

“Horseshit,” Taako snaps. It’s too grief-stricken to be entirely aggressive, so he gets a pass for being rude.

“Isn’t there anything we can do for her?” Magnus asks, quiet and somber. Three out of three, then- that’s good.

“I can’t fix this,” Hurley admits, “but I think… I can make it better.”

“Go for it. It’s what you do best,” Sloane says, because it’s the truth. She starts to fade in and out, dimly aware of a conversation happening around her. Maybe about her, considering the fact that she’s dying right in front of them. It’d be pretty inconsiderate for them to be talking about anything else.

She hears, “Don’t let this happen again,” then Hurley pulls her in close, pressing their foreheads together, and Sloane’s so distracted by the warmth, drunk off the proximity (and also, deadly poison) that it takes a second for her to realize that the warmth isn’t just Hurley (also poison), there’s some… energy that’s actually drawing them together, and it’s… it’s something she doesn’t have the words for, something she’s never felt. Or, no, she’s felt it, but never so much, all at once, and it’s overwhelming, how comfortable it is.

She smiles, and closes her eyes for the last time.


End file.
